A Letter of Business
by A Road Unturning
Summary: Jacob Marley leaves London for a few weeks, and Scrooge struggles to write a letter to implore his early return.


Disclaimer – I own nothing.

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_**A Letter of Business**_

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For Scrooge, letters were instruments of rationality. Perfect, convenient methods of communication and confirmation for the immortal dignities of "business" and all it involved. The application of ink to parchment could eradicate a leech that foolish dealings cost the company dear, or invoke the attentions of young customers with fat wallets and foolhardy minds sent on jovialities. Yes, letters were indeed the friends of business. They were practical, impersonal, no nonsense. They gave news and took news with no undignified stuttering of the too human tongue, and so, to Scrooge, they were above adequate in the thin line of human creation.

It was one of a long line of grey mornings that a youngish Jacob Marley lay down his pen, and recounted in his slow, monotonous drawl that his last surviving sibling had perished in a lonely cottage in the moors. He was to leave that following Monday to assemble his respects and with a faint twitch in his lip, to arrange and pay for the funeral. He would therefore spend a fortnight away from the office, from business, and from Scrooge.

At the time, this sudden declaration did little to pull on Scrooge's mind. It was only on the designated day, when the gloom lay thick upon the streets and pressed its ravenous hands against the office windows, did the singular scratch of his pen and the lofty bell of the clock seem small, lost, in the quiet office. At first, he worked on tirelessly, not allowing the brief pang racing through his chest to manifest as anything of note. The hours toiled on, until he shut up the office with only one pair of keys and with only one set of wet footprints on the pavement. The sign creaked above him, as if in mockery. He fixed it with a wry eye.

_Scrooge & Marley._

_Lies, _he thought, meant at first as weak humour, yet it echoed in his mind; a little bitter, and cold.

As the week progressed, he found himself imagining the swell of warmth that existed at the other end of his desk. Be it Marley's blue waistcoat with brass buttons, or his inability to ever fix his cravat incorrectly, or the thick weight of his hair, dark and sleek, fixed to the back of his head by a fine ponytail. How he tilted his hand just so whenever he signed a document, joining his vowels and flicking his signature in a cultured scrawl. Or the dull, feverish sheen of his muddy eyes, buried a little too deep into his rounded face.

When they were young, Scrooge had been tall, lean, flaxen haired and handsome, even if he smiled little. And Jacob, who'd been stout but light-footed, smooth, persuasive, and cunning as a fox, and despite his boyish features, the elder of the two. Marley had been dark as Ebenezer had been fair. Scrooge struggled in social situations, for he had always been awkward, yet Marley could trick with a disdainful charm. As a pair, they had been cutthroat, but wildly successful. And from those early days, they had been together.

By the end of Thursday evening, Scrooge was obliged...as he had been many countless times before...to write a letter.

It was indeed a logical move, was it not, to implore Jacob to finish his business quickly and return promptly to the _real_ business? The expenses were something that was difficult to face with one pair of eyes, although it wasn't that he wasn't capable, of course he was, but a second opinion was good for concreting agreements. And using coal to warm one body was a disgusting waste of resources. And ink rationing was a tiresome skill; how could he calculate what he was using, without Marley to compare with? So many commodities, wasted, and to think it was due to an absence as opposed to an addition! Keeping for one was uncharacteristically indulgent of Ebenezer Scrooge.

_Dear Jacob. _

No.

Scowling, he crushed the draft beneath his fist.

They were associates, not drinking partners.

_To my colleague, Mr J B Marley..._

That being said, they had been "associates" for the whole of his business years.

_Jacob,_

Yes. Direct, yet familiar.

_You are missed..._

Scrooge growled.

_Your presence is needed, for I am at a loss..._

A scrunched piece of paper hit the floor. He flinched at the waste, but it couldn't be helped.

_The business is in need of your services. Your second opinion is valued. Have the good grace of being..._

No.

_Have the good sense to be prompt in your dealings, and return to resume the honest work of business._

Scrooge paused, semi content.

_Your duties are of utmost importance to secure this company and partnership._

The pen froze, wavering, over the last line. Sweat prickled his brow.

It would be rational to wish him well, for it was Marley's well being that allowed him to put in good hours, and that alone contributed to the company's prosperity. Yes. It was logic, and logic was the crafting of a just mind.

_Keep well._

With that, Scrooge signed his name, and quietly fretted about the cost of postage.

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_Jacob,_

_Have the good sense to be prompt in your dealings, and return to resume the honest work of business. Your duties are of utmost importance to secure this company and partnership. Keep well._

_Ebenezer Scrooge_

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That following Friday, Jacob returned.

He was well and solemn and very much the same. He took his usual seat opposite his partner, who sat silent, with his head down and his quill working away. Soon, the scratching of nibs matched in mundane unison.

Outside, it was gloomy, and the coal only warmed the men enough, although the heat was less then generous. It was only when Scrooge stood to gather his documents, did Marley's voice, deep and worn, break the silence.

"I received your letter."

Scrooge felt a sudden intensity trickle through the air, and knew the burn of Jacob's gaze lingered on his person.

"Oh." He folded away the files. Evening was drawing near, and so another day was on the brink of closing. "It is good to know the postage in London is prompt."

He then waited, but nothing more came, and as the clock tinkled its closing knell, they closed up the old office, side by side, two misty silhouettes in the London fog.

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It had been a strange case of affairs, the undertaker had mused, about the death of Jacob Marley. They now awaited the coming of Ebenezer Scrooge, who would sign the funeral papers, and lay eyes upon the still body residing in the dusty and insultingly large bed.

The man had been taken ill suddenly...a weak heart, the housekeeper had mused...and his mortal coil had slowly unravelled from then on. Soon, there was to be Scrooge, but no Scrooge and Marley. And it had been strange, for as the man gasped his last in the dark, did the undertaker see an old hand reach for something. It was a small attempt, but admirable none the less. However, the outstretched fingers never grasped their target, for his breath took one last shuddering gulp, and the arm fell limp.

Afterwards, the undertaker took it upon himself to discover the cause of this man's one last desire. And oddly enough, placed on the beside cabinet, was a shrivelled piece of paper, aged by manhandling and one would guess, use as regular reading material.

It was a blunt little letter...a letter of business, one would deem. Disappointed, the undertaker let it be. It was a puzzlement that to him was of little worth.

And did Scrooge spot this letter of old, written long ago? The one thing that old Marley had reached for, when he was struck with death? No, for in that small letter, Scrooge had poured in his last little instance of warmth, of which Jacob had treasured silently, and had wished to experience once more in that clipped need for partnership, of which he was of use and worth, and in which he had been wished well.

And so Jacob took Scrooge's young words, and his well wishes, to the other side. And as Scrooge coolly returned from the death chambers, he nodded to the undertaker for the death certificate.


End file.
